Impossibly Unspoken
by WhiteDahlia13
Summary: 5 times Lydia heard Stiles say "I love you" without him ever uttering the words, and the first time he actually did say it. Because Lydia paid attention, she listened, she remembered. Lydia's POV. 100% pure Stydia.
1. Open Heart, Open Wound

My name is Lydia Martin, and I am hopelessly and irrevocably in love. I can only describe it as the kind of love " _when you see him standing down the hall, and you cannot breathe until you're with him"_. Those are the words of my best friend, Allison Argent, who helped me see that opening my heart to such a love would make all the best things in life possible. _I miss her so much._ When she first used that phrase to describe how she felt about Scott McCall, I told her I didn't know what it felt like. Up until then, no one had ever made me feel that way. Rather, there was one person who gave me a glimpse of what it might be like, however I did everything humanly possible to ignore that spark. But thanks to the steadfast nature of that same incredible person, now I can say that I absolutely _do_ relate to Allison's words and to their significance. The impossibly overwhelming, all-consuming love I have for him is the kind that quite literally opens portals in space and time. The kind that has brought me some of the worst, but far more of the best days of my life.

My love is Mieczyslaw Stilinski. Having trouble with that first name? Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, I know, but that name is synonymous with the purest, most amazing, and most important person in my life – so to me, it's beautiful and don't you dare say otherwise. In Polish, Mieczyslaw, means "sword" and "glory" and once you've read this, you will understand just how truly fitting that is. Still hung up on the pronunciation? Don't worry, we (that is…his family, friends, and I), we all call him Stiles…so that is how I'll refer to him from here on out.

I could tell you I knew from the minute I saw Stiles, that he was "the one", but it would be a lie. For someone with an IQ of 173, I will admit to being pretty stupid when it came to seeing and fully appreciating what was right in front of me. That just goes to show you, so-called intelligence only gets you so far. Basic human emotion and honesty, now those are what really matters when it comes to these things, and while Stiles has always had a knack for both, neither were part of my repertoire for a very long time…until Stiles woke me up.

In my defense, a substantial amount of loss, before I even turned double digits, may have been a serious contributing factor. By the age of eight, I had already lost three of the most important people in my life. First was my grandmother Lorraine, whom I lost to the misunderstood power of her own mind when I was just five years old. Then there was Stiles's mother, Claudia. When Stiles and I were eight years old, she was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia, a disease that stripped her of everything that made her the magnificent woman she was, rendered her fearful, paranoid, riddled with compulsion, and consequently broke the hearts of two of the best men I know, Stiles and his father Noah. Claudia helped me through one of the most difficult times in my life, and I felt her loss almost as deeply as they did. For us, the pain lingers within the walls of the Stilinski home. It's the quiet after a snowstorm; it's the stillness that blankets every magnificent thing about her with sadness and hides her presence from us with each passing day; just as the loss of Allison lingers in my heart and in Scott's. The third loss was not as unexpected as the former two. It occurred much more gradually, so I can't put an exact date to it, but I can tell you that it was my father. Even before the ink had dried on my parents' divorce papers, he had already let me down more times than I care to count. It was entirely his choice, and according to Stiles, this one was actually my father's loss, not mine. It sure as hell still hurt though.

In light of so much loss, an obvious mathematical expression presented itself to me: Open Heart = Open Wounds. Since I had already experienced more than my fair share of pain, I decided that the best way to protect myself from future torment would be to close my heart off. If I didn't let myself get attached to people, then I couldn't lose them…or so I thought. It was easier with some, but there were two major exceptions. First, there was Allison. Her parents' decision to move to Beacon Hills changed my life. Allison and I quickly became close friends, which was a completely new experience for me. While I was what people might call popular, most of my relationships were really just acquaintanceships. That was the plan though, right? If you don't get too close, you can't get hurt. But Allison was like a breath of fresh air. She was sweet, intelligent, capable, strong-willed, and fun to be around. We had a fair amount in common and our differences only enhanced the connection we developed. She was easy to talk to and never judged me. She looked deeper. For some reason, she wanted to know more about me than what everyone else _thought_ they knew. Most of all, she wasn't expecting anything in return. She sincerely cared about me, who I was, what I wanted out of life…which was also a pleasant change. She was open and honest as well, and apparently, those qualities are contagious. As a result, I began to drop some of my defenses without even intending to do so. That's when it all started – Allison was the catalyst. Our connection changed me. Her friendship left a permanent mark on my soul and cracked open the doorway to my carefully imprisoned heart. The other consequential effect of our bond – Allison was head-over-heels for Scott McCall and Scott has a best friend, which brings me to the second exception. Stiles.

The more time I spent with Allison…who spent a great deal of time with Scott (see where this is going?), the more time I spent with Stiles – and Stiles is one-of-a-kind. It was impossible to be completely oblivious to his charms…and there are many. He made it difficult for me to keep my distance; he weakened my resolve with his limitless displays of understanding, affection, intelligence, and wit. Then there's that face of his, which literally melts my heart every single time I look at him…and those eyes! Can we talk about his eyes for a minute? I know most people have a weakness for blue eyes. I also know that Stiles would completely disagree with the majority, insisting that green eyes are superior. And while I can certainly understand the appeal of both colors, for me, brown eyes, specifically _his_ brown eyes, are the most beautiful. They are deep, and warm, and impossibly expressive…and when light, especially sunlight, hits them in just the right way, these incredible flecks of gold appear from within his irises like buried treasure. I could go on, but let me get to my point, which was that Stiles did not make pushing him away very easy for me.

Over the years, he more or less killed the part of me that was determined to stay closed-off with kindness and compassion. Any and every time I needed someone to lean on, even when I thought I didn't, he was there. _He paid attention, he listened, he remembered._ His adorably awkward tendencies and sweet soul tempted me over and over again to just give in to him, to let myself feel all the things I had been refusing. There were moments when I let my defenses slip, like the time I held his hand when we went ice skating with Allison and Scott, or the few times I let myself cry on his shoulder. But for the most part, and much to my shame, I kept him at arm's length, which consequently caused immeasurable heartbreak for us both.

You see, there was a major flaw in the supposedly perfect formula for self-preservation that I developed (no Fields Medal for this one, I promise you). I had completely omitted two detrimental factors from the equation:

1) Pushing people away does not prevent you from grieving their absence. (In fact, it makes you grieve more intensely.)

2) I never needed to be protected from Stiles. (He would never hurt me. Ever.)

Had I accounted for those factors, I could have spared us both a great deal of pain. Instead, I remained silent when I should have spoken, I pulled away from Stiles when I should have leaned on him, I got distant, I got jealous, I misunderstood, all in all – I made a mess.

Thankfully, Stiles has always been better at dealing with matters of the heart. What I lacked in that area, he more than made up for. While few children are as astute as he was at eight years old, he knew that we were meant to be. He can even pinpoint exactly when he figured it out. It was his first day back to school after Claudia died. I saw him sitting alone and went over to talk to him. I'm sure I didn't say anything remarkable. Truthfully, I didn't know what to say. There's really nothing you _can_ say at a time like that. All I knew was that I wanted to him feel better…even just for a minute, because even then, seeing him in pain did something to me - it made me hurt too. If you were to ask him, Stiles would tell you that the words I said were the perfect ones. Ask him, and he would gladly tell you that he knew, from that day on the playground, that he loved me and always would. He reminds me of his incredible insight frequently, but I know he is not trying to make me feel guilty for taking so long to reach the same conclusion, or for taking an even longer time to admit my feelings. He knows why I held back, and for my part, Stiles can bring up his revelation as often as he likes…because whenever he mentions that day to me, it reminds me of the most important part of the story – and then, I can't help but smile. The most important part of the story is that he has loved me all this time, and for that, I consider myself to be the luckiest girl in the world. Even when I made it impossibly difficult for Stiles, he never lost faith in us. (I told you, he is amazing.) That faith, which happens to be anchored in the unfathomable patience he has with me, that faith is what made every good thing in my life possible.

His perceptiveness extends beyond recognizing that he was in love with me at such a young age and from such a simple, yet heartfelt, exchange. Stiles also possesses the unique ability to understand me; usually better than I understand myself. So, while I was trapped in a loop of self-imposed denial and resistance, Stiles was trying to help me see the infinite possibility of us being together by telling me that he loved me, in ways that I would be receptive to it. He knew me well enough to recognize when I wasn't ready to hear those three words – so he showed me instead. His remarkable intuition also made it possible for him to distinguish the exact moment when I _was_ ready to hear them. And every single time, the way he chose to express his love managed to astonish me. Because for as much as I know about him, I didn't always know this: Stiles's love has a quiet voice. But if you are ready to listen, you will hear it loud and clear. That brings me to the next part of the story, the five times Stiles told me he loved me without ever uttering the words.


	2. Open Up and See

_*Five, four, three, two, one_

At **five** in the morning Stiles does not speak, but he shows me how he feels, and for a long time after, I convince myself that I have imagined it. I am in the hospital after…well, at the time, I have no clue what happened to me. Actually, that's not completely true, I have a suspicion, but it seemed impossible. Impossible. Stiles and I were discussing that word yesterday – a word that has taken on an entirely new meaning for us in the past few years.

 **Impossible:** [im-pos-uh-buh l] adjective

not possible; unable to be, exist, happen, etc. _(unless it is)_

unable to be done, _(unless, it can be)_

incapable of being true, _(except, sometimes it is)_

not to be done with any degree of reason or propriety: an impossible situation _(we've been through plenty of those)_

utterly impracticable: an impossible plan _(we've mastered several of those as well)_

hopelessly unsuitable, difficult, or objectionable. _We, Stiles and I, are impossibly, possible._

I think Audrey Hepburn said it best: _"Nothing is impossible. The word itself says, I'm possible."_

So many things in my life have been impossible, but here I am. It was impossible that a werewolf had attacked me; yet it…well, _he_ …had. His name is Peter Hale and he is an impossibly despicable excuse for any kind of sentient being. It was impossible that I survived "the bite" without becoming a werewolf myself; but I did, and actually…I'm a banshee. You're probably wondering what a banshee is and I don't want to distract from the real message here…so I will boil it down to its simplest form – being a banshee means I can predict death. The fully mind-blowing and life altering consequences of those abilities…well, those are an impossibly long story. So, let's leave that for another time and place.

The story I want to tell you now is about a boy. A boy with an undying affinity for his light blue 1980 Jeep CJ-5, as well as the New York Mets, Star Wars, a band out of Maryland called All Time Low, and pretty much anything plaid (shirts, pajamas, you name it, he's got it…in plaid). A boy whose cheeks flush often and for a variety of reasons, from embarrassment…to anger…to passion. A boy who has an unlimited array of facial expressions, who has difficulty sitting still for more than a few minutes at a time, and who makes music with his incessant finger tapping, pacing, and fidgeting. A boy who thinks impressive displays of sarcasm are his only defense (well…that and a baseball bat), but whose intelligence and ingenuity are even more powerful. A boy who has no idea how devastatingly handsome he is, no matter how many times I tell him. Besides his gorgeous eyes, he has this cute little upturned nose, a sexy crooked smile, and…did I mention his hair? Let's just say I could run my hands through it all day, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't mind one bit if I did. It seems to calm him, and with everything he has been through, Stiles has more than earned some rest and relaxation. But all of this…it barely scratches the surface of who he is.

This same boy has a heart of gold to match the flecks in his eyes. If you want to catch a glimpse of it, just observe him with his dad, with Scott, or with me. He cooks dinner for his dad as often as possible and drops it off at the station whenever Noah works late. He does a majority of the household chores without complaint because he _wants_ to take care of his dad. When it comes to Scott, his best friend, his brother by bond if not by blood, there are no limits to his loyalty. He selflessly puts his life on hold if ever Scott needs him. He helped Scott face an impossible transformation. Despite his own fear and the uncertainty he must have been battling, this boy supported his friend and made connections that protected Scott from making irreparable mistakes. There wasn't an ounce of bitterness in him as he watched Scott become captain of the lacrosse team, basically overnight, even when they had both worked so hard to make the team. Instead, he cheered for his best friend from the sidelines and covered for him when more than a few things went awry. This is a boy who decided to love me no matter how difficult I have made it. He waited for me, he held out hope for us, never gave up on us, and accepted me unconditionally when I was finally ready to let myself love him. Nothing makes him light up more than knowing he can me laugh, and he is capable of making me laugh like no other. No one in my life has ever treated me the way he does. He repeatedly puts me first, he has this way of looking at me like I am the only person in the room, and he holds me like I am the most precious thing in the world. While he can be fairly impulsive if it means risking himself in care of others, he never takes a chance if it means someone else might be hurt. He may hold a grudge longer than most, but that's only because he has a fierce instinct to protect the people he loves. If you are fortunate enough to be one of them, there isn't anything he will neglect to do for you. He has risked his life for all three of us, on more than one occasion. You know what they say: _Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern_. He has made saving lives a pattern of his behavior. This is a boy who is the epitome of honesty, unwavering decency, and kindness. A boy who when given two impossible choices, will always choose to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurts him. A boy with the superhuman aptitude to read me, solve puzzles, and generally figure things out.

The boy I'm describing is of course, Stiles – the same boy whom I've known my entire life and purposely kept at arm's length – because he just made me feel _too much_. It was impossible to imagine that he risked his life, pleaded for mine, saved me, watched over me, with nothing to gain from it accept the knowledge that I was okay; but he had. It was impossible that someone that incredible could exist; but _Stiles is real, I know it_. It was impossible that anyone so generous, so brave, and so inherently good, could love me so much; but he does, and I realized it for the first time, on an exceptionally cold night, as I lie in a hospital room at Beacon Hills Memorial.

* * *

I wake to the beeping sound of my heart monitor. The room is unnaturally bright and though I am covered with a blanket, I am frightfully cold. My pain medication must be wearing off I think, because the searing pain in my side, where I was impossibly bitten by a werewolf, it has reignited. When I turn to reach for the call button, I see him – Stiles, and my heart monitor ceases momentarily.

Just a few hours before (or has it been longer?…I'm still not sure) we had been dancing at the Winter Formal. Now, I am dazed, weak, and confined to the itchy white sheets of a hospital bed. As the dense fog starts to clear from my mind, I remember what Stiles said to me at the formal, when I was being impossible and refusing to dance with him.

 _"Lydia, I've had a crush on you since the third grade, and I know…that somewhere inside that cold, lifeless exterior…there's an actual human soul. And I'm also pretty sure that I'm the only one who knows how smart you really are. And that once you're done pretending being a nitwit…you'll eventually go off and write some insane mathematical theorem that wins you the Nobel Prize."_

 _"Fields Metal."_

 _"What?"_

 _"Nobel doesn't have a prize for mathematics. A Fields Medal's the one I'll be winning."_

Of course, I had to correct him…before I took his hand and stepped onto the dance floor. Of course, I already knew that he had a crush on me, but for years I made the mistake of disregarding it as a baseless infatuation because I thought I hadn't allowed him to get to know me.

But Stiles already knows me better than anyone, and I don't comprehend the true depths of his affection until I see him sitting next to me, in the middle of the night, holding my hand as he sleeps in what looks like one of the most uncomfortable chairs ever made. Suddenly, I am warm and the pain in my side has diminished. The effect he has on me is rather significant, and I am intensely afraid _–_ afraid to move, afraid to speak his name, afraid to breathe, afraid to let him see what his presence really means to me.

I debate whether or not to wake him and what my reaction should be if I do.

 _Should I send him away?_ Why would I be so cruel? The answer to that was simple enough – because I couldn't control the overabundance of feelings inside of me.

 _Should I let him stay and tell him what it means to me that he is sitting here? What if I started crying?_ I hated when people saw me cry.

 _Should I thank him?_ What words could possibly convey the gratitude I felt?

 _Should I kiss him?_ He was impossibly cute…and those lips…

As I debate all of these things, Stiles begins to stir in the chair, tightening his grip on my hand and…

 _*I close my eyes…_

because I can't decide how to react, and I can't let him know I saw him. If I do, that will mean I would have to acknowledge that he is really beside me. In such a vulnerable state, there is no possible way I can speak to him while maintaining my composure, no possible way to hide the emotions he evokes from reaching my voice or my eyes. I am not ready to deal with any of this now.

So, I keep my eyes closed, and eventually I fall asleep listening to the soothing sound of his breathing (something I still do today). The next time I wake up, he is gone. _See_ , I tell myself. _Impossible – he was never really here._

For a long time, I am too stubborn to treat the memory of that night as anything more than a pain med-induced hallucination. But, of course, I am wrong. Stiles _was_ there, just like he has always been for me. The simple act of him sitting in that medieval torture device of a chair while I wane in and out of consciousness, tells me everything I need to know. He loves me. Stiles loves me.

* * *

In the **fourth** month of the year 2012, the next time it happens, there is no hiding, or pretending, or room for denial. I am wide awake, standing in the middle of his room, arguing with him about a risk I am far too willing to take for someone who treats me badly and could never have really loved me.

Stiles speaks to me this time. His face is battered and bruised, but he insists he is fine. The sight of those angry red marks, splayed across his left cheek and bottom lip, probably hurts me just as much as it does him, if not more. So, when he says…

 _"See, that's the problem. You…you don't care about getting hurt. But you know how I'll feel? I'll be devastated…and if you die, I'll literally go out of my freakin' mind."_

…and he's looking at me with those big brown eyes, flushed cheeks, and that poor injured lip is trembling with emotion, I fully understand what he means.

 _*And bang, I'm dead_

It's too much – no one has ever cared about me the way he does. So, I turn away from him, leave him standing there, because I can't let him see how profoundly he is affecting me. Going to him that night is the closest I have come to letting myself fully accept his friendship, and I can't make the leap to love just yet. No matter how much every cell in my body is crying out for me to take the right risk with my heart, I can't possibly let myself accept him because he already means more to me than I am willing to admit. The way my stomach hurt when I saw his face, the way I let myself cry in front of him, the way I smiled when he brought me toilet paper instead of tissues, the way I ached for him to stand closer even when he was yelling at me, the way my heart raced when he confessed how devastated he would be without me, they all told me that _this_ was something pure, and powerful, and true; something I've never experienced. But if I let myself love him or let him love me, that means I can lose him, and deep down, I know I don't deserve him, so the likelihood that I will lose him is pretty high. Honestly, two years later, I'm still not sure I do, but he tries to convince me on a daily basis that I'm wrong and I'm selfishly willing to believe him for as long as he will let me keep him.

Of course, Stiles comes to find me later, puts aside every reservation he has, to help me…even though it hurts him, because that is who Stiles is. And even though I'm scared of what I'm about to do and don't trust myself to keep him at a safe distance, I go – because Stiles always makes it so easy for me to trust him and somehow, I know he won't let me get hurt.

* * *

We are alone in his bedroom for the **third** time in as many days, but this time is different. Stiles's room has become a sanctuary. I feel more at home in this room than in my own and it's because of him. The space is an impressionist painting – canvas of blue-grey walls; every item he has accumulated over the years a brush stroke that dots the canvas with color and merges with every other to create a perfect reflection of who Stiles is – from the mountains of books piled on the floor, on the desk, and on the nightstand…to his lacrosse jersey, plaid comforter (yes, even his comforter is plaid), photos of his family and friends, little league trophies, telescope, and baseball signed by the entire 2000 NL Champion Mets team…all of the way to the collage of posters on the wall over his bed…and across to the adjacent wall covered with fragments from our latest investigation, including newspaper clippings, photos, and his own hand written notes…each strategically placed and layered…and laced with red string. These, and so many more, are the things that make this room distinct, and Stiles is the spark that ignites it all. He gives everything meaning.

In his room, I am supremely aware of our connection. I'm lying across his bed and it's soft like his eyes and saturated with his scent of pine needles, and clean linen, and Stiles. I inhale, fill my lungs with him and it relaxes me. I listen for familiar sounds, his occasional frustrated sighs, the marker he is tapping against his leg, his bare feet shuffling across the carpet. I look around the room and bursts of memories scatter around us like bits of confetti. Every time he takes a breath they are released into the air. Over the past few months, we've spent hours here; just the two of us. This is a place where we've shared meals, had arguments, studied, and strategized to the point of exhaustion. I've fallen asleep in this room and slept more soundly here than I have in my own bed. We've laughed in this room, cried in this room, and comforted each other in this room.

I look at him. In truth, it's impossible not to look at him. His hair is sticking out in every direction because he keeps running his hands through it. His eyes are dark and brooding with the burden of self-inflicted responsibility to _figure it out_. He crosses his arms as if trying to attribute a physical cause to the pressure on his chest. As he does, his light grey tee shirt stretches over his back, revealing tense shoulders and lean muscles that seem to have developed overnight. My eyes are transfixed as he paces. His red pants are slung low on his waist, and when he turns just so…and reaches to adjust a pin that secures an image of Barrow to the wall, I get a peek at his lower back and abdominals. I can tell that he feels like the answers to all of our questions are staring him in the face, frustration building as he seeks to draw them out. I hate to see him like this. I wish there is something I can say to relax him, but I'm dumbfounded just looking at him.

Every cell in my body is calling out for him so loudly, I wonder if he can hear me. I'm dying for him to come closer, but I try to distract us both by asking him about the different colors of string next to me on the bed. As he explains it, I am nervously winding a length of the crimson color around my finger until I'm practically cutting off my circulation – but I don't care because I'm filled with guilt for getting him into trouble earlier in the afternoon.

 _"…different stages of the investigation. So green is solved, yellow is to be determined, blue's just pretty."_

 _"What does red mean?"_

 _"Unsolved."_

 _"You only have red on the board."_

 _"Yes, I'm aware. Thank you."_

Brilliant. I have no idea why I felt the need to point out something so obvious. I'm making him more irritated, and I hate myself for it.

 _"Did you get detention for pulling the alarm?"_

 _"Yep. Every day this week. It's okay, though. We were onto something."_

And the guilt keeps on coming. It's not okay. Why do I keep hurting him when all I want to do is see him be happy?

 _"Even though we couldn't find any proof of Barrow being there?"_

As if he can sense my need for proximity, he finally closes the distance between us. It's exactly what I wanted, but now I'm terrified.

 _"Hey, Lydia. You've been right every time something like this has happened, okay? So, don't start doubting yourself now."_

He's impossibly close, and I start to feel lightheaded. The sensation intimidates me but leaves me wanting more. He is the sun, expelling a dark cloud of guilt from the atmosphere and warming me with his existence. I feel weak and vulnerable, and I remind myself not to look in his eyes. If I do, I know he will be able to detect what I am still so desperately trying to hide. So, I look down instead, which makes my plight worse because now my eyes have landed on his lips. I stare at those perfect lips – slightly fuller bottom one that meets with the sweet dip at his cupid's bow when he pouts. They are fading to white in the place where he is pressing the marker and I remember how soft they were when I kissed him; how they responded first with shock, then tenderness, then wanting. My soul awakened with that kiss. On the timeline of my life, there are two points of reference – before the kiss and after the kiss. When I kissed Stiles, the limited world of what I thought was possible, went up in flames. Every part of me melted with the fire that it kindled, and I knew there was no way to return to the way I was. Even if there had been, I was sure I didn't want to.

 _"No scent. No bomb. And I got you in trouble."_

Right now, my eyes are wide and I'm on the verge of tears at the thought of our one and only kiss, but his voice brings me back to the present.

 _"Okay, look. Barrow was there. All right? You knew it. You felt it. Okay? And, look, if you wanted to…I'd go back to that school right now and search all night just to prove it."_

Even with a week's worth of detention looming ahead of him and the unrelenting weight of the world on his shoulders, he focuses on reassuring me – because he loves me. I realize then, he would literally go anywhere with me, anytime. All I have to do is ask. Our fingertips are touching, and he is slowly unraveling me from the confines of my fear as he unwinds the string from my finger.

 _*And here I go…_

I am his. I've already fallen for him. There is no one and nothing for me except Stiles, and that is exactly how I want it because I love him. _I love Stiles._ I want to tell him right now…but he's just figured something out and the moment has passed.

 _"Get up. Get up now. We're going to the school," he says._

* * *

We are in his room again. The decision is final – the **two** of us are going into Eichen House, and we are going together. Even though he despises everything about that "nightmare asylum of insanity and death", he will not consider the possibility of letting me venture into such a place without him. He's hurting. I can see the discomfort in his eyes as he puts on his sweatshirt, and it makes my eyes sting and my chest tighten. Seeing Stiles in pain is worse than any of my own. I already know this, but each time, it hits me with the force of a wave thrashing at high tide. He crosses the room to stand in front of me, and all I can think is that I love him so much that it hurts. I desperately want to reach out for him, even more than I normally do, but I can tell he is irritated and upset, so I don't move. I tell myself he might not let me…and while I think I can handle a great deal, the thought of Stiles pushing me away is too much. He's wearing his resolved face – eyebrows slightly gathered in the middle, left eye slightly narrowed, lips in a firm line, cheeks ever so slightly beginning to flush. His voice is firm but there is no trace of anger.

 _"You are not going without me."  
_

I don't know how it's possible, but he loves me still. Stiles has many gifts, and although subtlety is surely not one of them, he somehow continues to show me he loves me in the most understated of ways. I try to discourage him, but if I'm being completely honest, I'm relieved when he insists.

 _*He did it all to spare me from the awful things in life that come…_

…because he always looks to protect me; because that is who he is – _my Stiles_. He may not possess physical super-strength, or have fangs, claws, or a sword, but his super-strengths are the power of his incredible mind and his pure heart, and the weapons he wields are his unbounded determination and strength of character. This is exactly why I trust him above anyone else, exactly why he is the only one I want to let protect me, and exactly why I have the desire to do the same for him. The way we protect each other is by staying together. With us, together is always better.

During the drive to Eichen House, I'm tense and angry with myself for not reaching out to him. My hesitation is another missed chance. I should have been the one reassuring and comforting him, as he has always done for me, but the opportunity seems to pass as quickly as it presented itself. I wonder how many more times I will let this happen, and shudder at the eerie sensation that passes over me. As I deliberate, I consider the possibility that rejection was not the true reason for my inaction. I'm positive that what I really feared was that if I held onto him, the way I wanted to, I may never let him go.

Strangely enough, all of the worry and regret impossibly leaves my body when we are inside the hideous, echo-filled walls of a mental institution. I can feel him – Stiles's eyes are on me the entire time, his hand takes its rightful place on my back, he stands just a step in front of me when we talk to Valack, and when we are cornered, he holds onto me with every bit of warmth and concern that he always has. It's then that I know he hasn't given up on me. And weeks later, when I'm trapped inside my own mind, behind those very walls, thoughts of Stiles are the only ones that keep me from complete despair – because I know he will come for me, impossible obstacles and shaking hands be damned. He will come for me with blazing brown eyes and a humble smile on his face…and his plaid cape trailing behind; Stiles will save me.

* * *

 **One** voice. That's what it takes to bring me back. I'm dying but something…rather someone…pulls me back. The world around me has started to fade, get farther away, darken. An urgent chill creeps in, burrowing deep inside my core. The splitting pain in my head, the ache that has plagued my body for weeks, the tightness in my throat from struggling to withhold a scream – they are all gone. Even the cacophony of sound ringing in my ears is growing quiet…save for a single voice.

 _"Listen to me, Lydia. Hey, show me your eyes, okay?"_

That voice pushes all of the others aside, growing clearer and clearer, and lifting me from the darkness.

 _"Lydia, you have to open your eyes."_

And I do, and it is Stiles's voice that makes me obey the impossible request. As I begin to regain focus, his is the first face I seek. I feel him before I see him – grasping my hand in a way that is as distinctive as the color of his eyes or the scent of his skin. I would recognize his touch anywhere. I turn my gaze from the familiar, kind, and bewildered face of my dear friend Scott, to that of the boy who risked everything to get to me, who pleaded for me to wake up, who saved my life countless times – my love, _my Stiles_.

 _*And he cries and cries…_

…because I'm alive and we are together. He stands over me, poking at his bottom lip with his tongue, trying to contain the emotion of it all, but tears are filling his eyes, cascading over his impossibly long lashes, and splashing down on my cheeks. His breaths are shallow and uneven, like mine. He is close enough that I can feel his heart pounding against my arm, in sync with mine. He's tired and wrecked from everything he has been through, yet Stiles is still the most impossibly beautiful sight I have ever seen. Relief flows like a current, directly from his body and into mine. His warmth spreads over me, awakening every cell in my body that has been tortured, drugged, and left dormant for weeks. I can hardly tell where he ends and I begin.

If I thought or hoped it before, I am unequivocally sure of it now – he still loves me. My life was slipping away; I had stopped breathing and the beating of my heart had ceased…but then I started again – _for him_. I cannot be without him. I want to live – _for him_. _I love him._ Those feelings have not wavered.

 _*Five, four, three, two, one_

* * *

Inspiration: Murder Song by Aurora (featured in episode 06x07, Heartless)br /

All lyrics are italicized and marked with an *.


	3. The Words

It is with all seriousness that I tell you, Stiles has the ability to both give me breath and take it away. In light of all of the unspoken I love yous between us, one might assume that I would have been better prepared for the words when I heard them. I had waited for the moment, imagined what it would be like, and in my mind, I was practically begging to hear those three words every time we were alone. My heart, as per usual, was another story. It wasn't ready for the all-consuming flood of emotion that came after…or the emptiness that followed. That's the thing that no one tells you – imagining something so momentous generally pales in comparison to the actual experience of it. So, when Stiles said he loved me for the first time – with the actual words, he left me breathless.

* * *

We are sitting in his Jeep, surrounded by Ghost Riders that he can see, but I cannot. We both know what this means – he is going to be taken. There is no way to prevent it and no amount of running will be far enough. I am panicked, especially when there is so much left unsaid between us, but I don't think I've ever seen him as focused and calm as he is in those last moments. In fact, Stiles is remarkably calm, and I know he is doing it for me.

 _"Just try to find some way to remember me, okay?_

 _Remember how you were the first girl I ever danced with?_

 _Or how I had a crush on you freshmen year…sophomore year…junior year…_

 _Remember how you saved my life."_

 _"You saved my life too,"_ I respond, my throat tightening over the words, as I try to comprehend the impossible pain I feel at the thought of being separated from him.

His expression is one that I have seen numerous times during our journey to this point, but it's effect on me has magnified. The tugging I always feel in my chest when he is near wrenches so tightly that I literally lean forward to appease it. I think he feels it too, because he does the same. His stare is gentle yet determined. It's dark inside the Jeep, but I can still see the light in his eyes – the light that never leaves – it is the spark that fills me with a sense of wonder, the flame that makes everything more intense and meaningful, the fire that makes me feel alive. His lips are so near, and I want to kiss him so badly. His voice is soft…just above a whisper, but it's steady, and within it I can hear that he has no doubts about what he is saying. He is so beautiful, and I love him even more than I thought possible only a few seconds ago. Our fingers are locked together, but it's hardly enough contact. I keep telling myself not to let go of his hand; maybe if I hold onto him they will have to take us both – then at least, we would still be together.

 _"Just remember…remember I love you."_

I can't breathe. There isn't even time to say it back before he is ripped away from me.

 _*The gun is gone_  
 _*And so am I_  
 _*And here I go_

It's so quick. I blink, and he has vanished. I have finally heard the words I've been wanting to hear for _so long_ – and they are immediately snatched from me, right along with Stiles. It's impossible that anything so cruel could happen, except it just did. This hurts worse than anything I have ever felt.

For months I have to exist without him, without even one clear memory to comfort me. I won't call it living because without Stiles, the spark, the flame, the fire – they are all gone. Without Stiles, I am a shell of the person that I can be _with_ him. I never take a full breath in all of that time. My lungs will only allow the minimum intake of oxygen – shallow, shallow breaths, for weeks – if I inhale too deeply, it hurts even more. It's impossible to sleep without dreaming of a distant voice. He is calling for me and I can't help him. I look for him everywhere I go, tears always at the ready, throat always tight. My hands are chronically empty as I reach for someone I cannot touch. Instead of his arms, I am draped in shadow. There is no warmth left in my body and no amount of artificial heat can ease the chill. The world keeps going but it's too quiet, too still, too empty without him. _How can everyone go on like nothing is missing?_ _Can't they all feel the lack of him?_ I can. All of the love is still there but I have no one to give it to. There is a hollow place inside my chest where my heart used to be. It leaves an impossible ache I know I've felt before…whenever there was distance between us, but somehow, it's worse than it ever was.

I'm beside myself with hopelessness…but it's impossible to give up on him because even though I don't have all the memories, I know, _I know_ he has never given up on me and _I know_ that he loves me. The tugging in my chest is relentless. It is towing me forward; it drags me out of bed in the morning; makes me put one foot in front of the other and write his name in big bold letters with my unsteady hand; it makes me ask questions and assume possession of a light blue, 1980 Jeep CJ-5; it reveals his lacrosse jersey to me, makes a bright white number 24 on maroon fabric…that still smells like pine needles, and clean linen, and _him_ …materialize out of thin air – in what appears to be an empty room to everyone else but me. Every step is one step closer to my love. I will not rest until he comes home to me.


	4. Holding Fast and Letting Go

When I finally get him back, I can breathe again. Stiles literally kisses the breath, the warmth, the life back into me. I can't help the sob that escapes my throat and sneaks into his mouth, where he catches it and passes it back to me, letting me know he feels the same way. His voice rings through to my soul, awakening it with the promise that he understands, that he knows I love him, that _he is here_. There are tears for both of us, but they are tears of joy and relief. My hands touch every bit of him in a flurry of exploration – caressing his perfectly flushed cheeks which are speckled with a distinct pattern of moles I can actually remember, grazing over his eyelashes, tangling in his hair, grasping at his neck and shoulders, pulling him tighter and closer to me – until once again, I am unable to tell where he ends and I begin. We are in the same place where I realized I love him; where I kissed him for the first time. The locker room is dark, but for me, the sun has just come out. The space I held for him has expanded and filled. The love I have for him has impossibly multiplied.

In truth, between all the I love yous – spoken and unspoken – there has been a great deal of heartache. There have been misunderstandings and wrong conclusions. There has been bickering, an impossible amount of longing, and more distance that I thought I could bear. But when Stiles and I, when _we_ , finally get it right – it is more than worth it. And now, we are never letting go.

* * *

The night he comes home to me, I drive us home in his beloved Jeep, which he thinks I hate, but actually, I don't. It was Claudia's and now it's his. How could I possibly hate it? So many memories are linked to that Jeep, and it's fitting that we are where he first told me he loved me…with words that is. A ten-minute drive seems like an eternity. It's difficult to keep focused on he road. All I want to do is look at him. I keep glancing over to make sure he is still there, that he hasn't vanished again. He takes my hand and links our fingers together. It calms me.

The Stilinski house is dark but inviting; we are both exhausted and bleary-eyed. We find peace together as we stumble into the sanctuary of his room, ready to carve new memories into this hallowed place. We shed more tears…as well as our clothes, and silently crawl into bed. Wrapping his plaid comforter around us, we immediately settle into each other's arms. It's the breath before the leap. It's so quiet I wonder if the entire world is holding its breath along with us. Now, I can say what I have been wanting to say for over a year and it is surprisingly easy.

"Stiles, I need to tell you," I begin.

He opens his mouth to stop me. I think he's worried that what I'm about to say comes from some sort of obligation. That could not be further from the truth. I _want_ to say the words more than I ever – Stiles needs to hear it and I need to say it.

I put my finger to his lips and tug gently as his cupid's bow. "I know that I don't have to, but I _want_ to…I _need_ to say it for both of us. I need _you_ to hear the words, and _I_ need to know that I said them…because there have been so many times when I wanted to, and I didn't. And when you were gone…I thought you knew…but when I remembered that I had never said the actual words…it killed me." I inhale deeply – I can do that now that he is with me. "Stiles, I love you…in a way that I have never loved anyone – with my whole heart. When they took you from me…I couldn't picture your face or remember any of the things we did together, but I could hear your voice in my dreams every night. I knew that you loved me, I remembered how you made me feel…and that was as real to me as holding you right now. The love I have for you – it _never_ left. It was like I could feel you everywhere I went, only I couldn't see you, I couldn't talk to you, I couldn't touch you. It was the worst pain I've ever experienced. Without you here…I was lost…I couldn't breathe…I was only half alive. Getting you back changed all that. It was so dark, but you made the sun come out again. I love you. I _love_ you. And I'm so sorry that I made you unsure of it. I tried to show you…but it's like my body wouldn't let me."

I think we both have tears in our eyes at this point but it's difficult to tell because my eyes are blurry, and I refuse to take my hands off him to wipe them away. He looks at me pensively, brows gathered in the middle, upside-down smile on his lips. Then he astonishes me with his words once more.

"Lydia…" The word passes his lips like a prayer. "You _did_ show me…but half the time, I was too afraid to believe it – which…I'm aware, makes absolutely _no sense_ because...it's all I ever wanted to be true."

"I'm sorry it took me so long to say it. Every time I let myself look into your eyes, every time you held my hand…it was always right at the tip of my tongue. I wasted so much time…if I would have just said the words…we could have been together."

"Shh…I don't want you to be sorry for anything," he explains as he kisses my forehead and runs his hand through my hair. "When I was gone…I had a lot of time to think…there really wasn't much else to do," he says with a soft grin that I can't help but return. "Mostly, I was just filled with regret. I thought about all of the times I could have told you…and how I let them slip away because I was afraid. But then, I figured something out and it made missing you a little easier to bear." He pauses to sigh, "Yeah…we might not have been a couple in the traditional sense – weren't going on dates…we weren't making everyone else insanely jealous with our non-stop displays of PDA…and as much as I would have liked to, we weren't…" he leans closer and whispers a third example in my ear that sends electricity all over my body. "Those are all things I would like to remedy, by the way…like very soon." A devilishly handsome smile breaks through but quickly fades as his tone becomes serious again and he looks at me from underneath his impossible lashes, "But all of that time, we were there for each other…in every other way – we confided in and relied on each other, we lived for each other…would have died for each other, we _saved_ each other. When I look back, that's what I'm going to remember. I'm going to remember...that for all that time, my heart belonged to you."

I'm mesmerized by him, but I'm able to whisper, "My heart belonged to you too."

"So, I guess what I'm saying is…in that sense, we _have_ been together, all along."

Leave it to Stiles to say the exact words I need to hear, exactly when I need to hear them. He is everything; all I need, all I want… _everything_ …and he's always been mine. I just wish I deserved him.

"Stiles, _you are so smart_ …you should kiss me right now."

He smiles at the memory I'm referring to, then presses a kiss to my lips that hastens my heart and makes me feel dizzy. I'm drowning in him, but I've never felt more alive. My heart is so full, I think it will burst. The air is heavy with the same emotion that is impressed upon our faces. We gaze at each other through the dim light of the moon, whispering all of the things that were previously impossible to say and are now impossible to withhold. Words spill from our lips in a rush and a jumble – impossibly fast as we fight against fear. Fear that our time together will be cut short. Then he touches my heart and the world slows down for us. We lie there for a while, locked in each other's arms, fighting against the incomprehensible need that is coursing through our veins. But after all of the waiting, is now, when we are so completely wrecked, is _this_ the right time? The answer, of course, is a resounding _YES_. If there was ever a more perfect setting or a more perfect person to be _this_ vulnerable with, then we have no knowledge of it.

We hold our breaths and when it is impossible to smother the need any longer, we give in…and the two of us unravel together like that infamous red string at my fingertips. Our movements are slow and careful, each treating the other as fragile and precious, but there is nothing slow or careful about the secrets we are revealing to each other; hearts completely open within those familiar walls of his bedroom. We hold fast to each other through what remains of the night, blissfully terrified and struggling against sleep. Neither of us speak of it, but each of us fears that the light of day will expose our reunion as a dream, a figment of imagination born out of limitless yearning. The need for rest eventually takes hold and morning inevitably arrives, yet we are still together. Perhaps by force of will, we somehow managed to tether each other to the earth and we have done the same – every night since.

* * *

 _Stiles is real,_ and he is here with me – where he belongs. Right now, it's just after dawn. Rosy sunlight is beginning to peek through the blinds. A cobalt sky is streaked with clouds and tinted with shades of pink, lavender, and best of all, amber like the flecks in his remarkable eyes. I love Stiles in the morning. There is an ease about him in those early hours – his morning voice sweet, and soft, and low; he's sleepy eyed, messy haired, and unhurried. He's lighter in the morning, before the weight of the world, that he so diligently works to shrug off at night, remembers him, catches up with him in the daylight, and climbs back on his shoulders. He's lying next to me; his head resting on a pillow that is draped with my hair, his scent enveloping me, and his beautiful face buried in the crook of my neck. Half-asleep, he plants kisses there, telling me he loves me with every blessed one – and I adore him more that I even thought possible yesterday.

The window is open, letting cool air into the room, but his body is so warm and inviting that I can feel myself melt into him. I can hear a breeze swishing the leaves that are in the trees and on the ground outside. This is a sound that previously instilled an intense fear, deep inside my bones. The same sound I heard when Stiles was taken from me; wind gusting around us as figures I could not see, channeled threats to erase my love through the sound of rustling leaves. I thought it would be impossible to hear that sound again without the reflexive shuddering it triggered in me, but Stiles miraculously transformed it. In the quiet hours of the night he returned, when he was above me – eyes laced with desire, lips linked with mine, heart thundering against my trembling hands, warm skin connecting with every part of me – he told me he loved me with words, and touches, and looks…over the sound of rustling leaves outside that same open window. He repeated it…again and again, until all of the fear dissipated and morphed into comfort. Now, when I hear that familiar sound, Stiles is still telling me he loves me, without ever having to utter a word – and it reminds me that the best thing I ever did in my life was fall impossibly in love with Mieczyslaw Stilinski.


End file.
